The pen, it thrives inspiration.
Channelling thoughts; emotions of my being.
For if I don’t feel it the pen can not write it.
The pen writes so only I understand.
I am the master; it the slave…
A slave to my heart like fingers to a hand.
The pen is my friend.
The pen is my guide.
For the pen speaks my soul.
Why has this happiness intruded my space?I didn’t ask for its warmth, its pleasure, its grace.My true satisfaction comes from only one thing.A deep depression
I stare into the mirror, as it casually and unaware reflects the true nature from within my soul. A dim light of hope that redemption
I got friends that inspire meI got a roof above meI got food inside meBut happiness still eludes me I got all the things I
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